Not the Last
by Jenny T
Summary: Bobby paces, Hank works, Emma won't shut up. Just your usual end-of-the-world type stuff. Depressing, in a light-hearted sort of way. Rated for language.


Disclaimer: Do I own them?  Hell no.  

There's the sound of a distant explosion, but Bobby doesn't even look up.  It's one of his, a particularly nasty booby trap – but then again, all of the traps he's set along the length and breadth of what used to be the mansion are particularly nasty.  They're designed that way.  A year ago he would have baulked at the thought of such indiscriminate methods.  Then again, a year ago most of his friends were still alive.

Hank's ensconced at his bench, working away.  Every now again he'll look up at the sound of an explosion, and Bobby will say.  "One of mine, Hank.  Relax".   Otherwise he's so involved in his work that he barely notices the Iceman, pacing around the room, checking the seals on the door, their food supplies.  

Not that Bobby needs food.  He took a lungful of the lento-veneno, the slow poison, a month ago.  Turned out to have some interesting side effects.  As long as he stays in ice-form he needs neither food nor sleep.  That's the plus side.  The downside is that if he tries to change back, he'll die.

Just like Hank's doing right now, one bit at a time.  The bitter, logical side of his mind that Bobby refers to as his 'inner Emma' tells him he should have left Beast to die, not agreed to drag him all the way back here and most likely die with him.  They'll have flamethrowers – and fire is the one thing left for Bobby to fear.  It's not as if he can save Hank, or anything – besides which, an antidote to the lento-veneno is not what Hank is working on now.  He's been surprisingly reticent (ooh, big word), about what exactly he is working on.  Just that it's something he needs to get done before the end.

_Before he dies, _Bobby's mind fills in.  There is another bang from downstairs, this one closer.  He runs his hand over the metal door, watching the trails of cold appear behind his fingers.  Hank is blurry and indistinct in 'ice-vision', but the heat he's putting out is increasing.  He's got a fever.  Bobby supposes there are worse ways to die than the slow poison, but not many.  A sudden flash of memory – Logan standing over Jubilee's body and the bullets ripping through him, glint of adamantium underneath the torn flesh, and he just kept getting up, just kept getting up.  Jean's voice in Bobby's head, weakening, telling him to run, for God's sake, run!  And he slings Hank's arm around his body, stumbles to the X-Jet, and runs, like the coward he is.  Beneath the visor Cyclops died with his eyes open, and as Bobby runs Jean is projecting, losing control of her telepathy as she bleeds into the ground and all Bobby can hear is 'His eyes are green, his eyes are green, his eyes are green' over and over and over as Wolverine goes down again and doesn't get back up.  Ororo is waiting in the jet, her eyes stony, and the reason is weeping in the back over Rogue's body in a broken mixture of French and English, and Hank coughs while he wraps his own head wound.  They're taking off, and Kurt appears with his mother, Mystique not even bothering to make any of her usual comments about cooperating with the X-Men only under duress, both of them caked with dust and blood.

Bobby's train of thought is thankfully interrupted by a soft exclamation from Hank.  It's soon smothered by another bout of coughing.

"You found something, Hank?"

"Perhaps, my young compatriot.  Perhaps…"  His voice trails off, but there is excitement in the tone of his voice.  Another explosion, closer this time, and Bobby paces some more, because there's nothing else to do.

He wonders, briefly, about those that are left.  Remy fell soon after that day, taking one too many chances, his luck not holding out.  Magneto's still holed up in Europe somewhere – maybe that's where Kurt and Raven went, maybe they yet live.

Maybe Kurt still prays for them, now and again.  

No-one can know where Ororo went, after Remy.  After her grief shook the skies, the Windrider rising, sweeping away.  He wonders if she made it.  His inner Emma thinks not.  She was strong, but made vulnerable with sorrow, emotion.  Bobby has to agree, and hates himself for it.  But that's the way.  Gotta keep being strong, gotta play it cool.  Bobby's real good at that now, ha.

"Bobby."

One word, choked out on a gasp of air.  On Hank's screen pixels swirl, change.  The familiar double-helix.  "Look," says Hank, and with large fingers quick on the keyboard, quicker than they should be, one part of the sequence lights up like a flame.

"Precursor gene."  Hank's voice is full of wonder and even though Bobby doesn't know much, he knows this is important.  "Always wondered why, never figured it out before…"

More coughing, until Bobby pours what's left of Hank's medicine down his throat.  No need to conserve it now, and Bobby doesn't even know if that's Emma or him talking.

"The X-Gene, has to come from somewhere.  This is somewhere.  Precursor, activator."  The screen changes again, and the light spreads, other pieces DNA lighting up like little candles.  "The activation is random, I can't pinpoint the mechanism, I could barely pinpoint the gene itself.  Little changeling." and only Hank could sound fond of a gene, "Hides within human DNA.  Difficult to detect.  You remember the genetic files Katherine acquired for me?"

Yes, Bobby remembers Kitty.

"Three quarters of 'normal' humans are carriers, Robert, maybe more."  Hank looks up, eyes glistening with tears, and it would be a beautiful sight if Bobby could still see.  "This will never end, it cannot end.  Nature wants us to exist, and no matter how many are destroyed, we shall rise again."

It's a beautiful speech too, or would be if Hank wasn't rasping it out through a throat vomit-dry.  Suddenly the figure slumps, and Hank shakes, fitting, coughing up blood.  But there is a light in his eyes, the knowledge that he gained in the last minutes terribly precious to him, and Bobby doesn't even have to look away when he pulls the trigger, ending the pain.

Move quickly now.  Retrieve the data, destroy the computers, get the hell out of here.  But Bobby's not doing these things.  He carefully lies the body out, covering Hank with a standard-issue blanket, closing his eyelids with the tips of two frosty fingers, placing a pillow below his still head.

He wishes he could remember a prayer, but all the words have left him, so he just says.  "Rest in Peace, Hank."

_Stupid_, says Emma in his head.  _He's dead, he doesn't care now.  Get a move on, Iceboy._

And so he does, doing all the things he should.  His power is growing, under Emma's careful tuition, and after all that it's not hard (lazy blokes, these army types), to slip out from under the net.  Infrared doesn't work on him.  Bullets are almost easy now.  Behind him, the mansion goes up in flames.  It was almost unrecognisable, anyway, a travesty, a graveyard.  

Emma's cackling, totalling up how many of the enemy they've killed.

_Shut up.  Shut up, shut up!  He's dead, dammit!  And so are you, bitch, so keep your mouth shut._

_I may be a dead bitch, but I'm a good teacher.  And this wasn't exactly my first choice, either.  Terribly boring, your head is.  No-one to talk to but myself._

Bobby finishes laying one last trap in his trail, then heads into the woods.  It's a cold New York winter.  His time, his place.  He can probably summer in the arctic, beneath the surface of the water.  Just keep on living, keep on surviving.  Keep remembering, since all his photos went up in flame long ago.

Not the last of us.  His mind sings.  Emma laughs in victory.  _Knew it._  Knew it._  _

_You did not, slut._  But his tone is light.

Not the last of us, and that's enough.


End file.
